


An Unexpected Path

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [58]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Relationships, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December, 2009: An ancient lie Scotland and Wales told England finally starts to crumble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue written for gisho.

**3rd October, 2000; London, England**

  
  
There are some things that, when dropped into a conversation, shatter it completely, leaving the affected participants blinking dazedly in the wreckage afterwards, wondering how the hell they were supposed to go about rebuilding it.  
  
England's offhand pronouncement was one of those things.  
  
After uttering it, he goes back to polishing off the remnants of his pint, as blithe and unconcerned as if he'd simply confessed to something as inconsequential as preferring white bread over brown.  
  
A minute or so later, Wales still hasn't progressed beyond the dazed blinking, his mind stuck replaying England's words over and over and seeming unable to move past them. On the other side of the table, Scotland is examining his own pint suspiciously, as though checking to make sure no one's replaced the lager with something more potent whilst he wasn't looking.  
  
Eventually, when he finds no answers at the bottom of his glass, Scotland's eyes flick towards England again, and he asks, "What, never?"  
  
"Never ever." England shakes his head so vigorously that he almost loses his balance, and he has to catch hold of the edge of the table to keep himself from sliding off his stool. "I am so pissed," he says, sniggering, as he struggles upright again.  
  
He must be, Wales thinks, to have lost control of the tight grip he usually keeps on his tongue, but Wales is far, far too pissed to nudge his thoughts from the deep groove they've settled in –  still endlessly circling round and around a slightly shocked ' _Did_ Lloegr _really just say that_?' – and formulate a rational response to the slip. They've been drinking solidly and heavily for six hours now, for reasons he can no longer recall. He thinks they might have been celebrating something. Or perhaps attempting to drown their sorrows about it. If it's the latter, then they've definitely been successful, because everything between their meeting this morning and round number ten has been smothered in a thick, impenetrable fog.  
  
Scotland isn't quite so drunk seemingly because his thoughts at least appear to have travelled beyond the initial point of impact. "But, Portugal –"  
  
"Never," England says, shaking his head a little more conservatively.  
  
Scotland's eyebrows draw close together, gathering creases between them. "And India…?" he asks tentatively.  
  
"Never, Scotland," England snarls, slamming his palms down hard against the beer-sticky tabletop. " _Byth_. _Nior_. Fucking hell, is it really that difficult to understand?"  
  
The creases deepen. "Why?"  
  
England leans even closer to Scotland, his lips curving into a very self-satisfied-looking smile. "Because, unlike _some people_ , I'm capable of restraining myself. I'd rather keep my magic than –"  
  
"I'm going for a piss," Scotland announces loudly, shooting to his feet so abruptly that he sends his stool clattering to the floor behind him.  
  
He gives Wales a significant look as he stalks towards him, and jerks his head towards the pub's front door. What exactly the look signifies, however, is unclear. As well-versed in his brother's moods and expressions as Wales is, he still can't add up the exact set of his jaw, jut of his chin, and cast of his eyes in a way that elucidates whatever message it is that Scotland is trying to convey.  
  
So all he can do is shrug.  
  
Scotland's expression morphs into something much more recognisable: quickly rising irritation with an undercurrent of potential violence. He grabs hold of the back of Wales' shirt collar, hauling him to his feet, and when Wales' ear draws level with his mouth, he whispers, "We need to talk. Now."

  
 

* * *

  
  
  
Outside in the pub's car park, the air is cold enough, the wind brisk enough, that sobriety and understanding both start to percolate through Wales' brain.  
  
"Oh," he says as realisation hits, and then, "shit."  
  
"My thoughts exactly," Scotland says. "Except there were a few more ' _fuck_ 's and a couple of ' _bollocks_ ' in there, too."  
  
Wales joins his brother in leaning against the bonnet of his Ford Escort, which groans a little under their combined weight. "I never thought he actually believed us."  
  
"I did, but only back when we first told him. The fae might not have been able to tell him it was bollocks themselves, but I figured he'd've got to the point where he couldn't help but work that out himself some time over the last eight hundred fucking years."  
  
Wales can't even remember now why they told England what basically amounted to, 'no shagging or the fae will fuck off and leave you on your own', but he suspects that the lie's genesis probably lay in the fact that Scotland had been worried that England was far too reliant on the fae back then. When they were children, Scotland's concern for both England and Wales had rarely manifested itself as anything other than random cruelties perpetrated in the name of 'toughening them up'.  
  
"I guess he didn't dare risk that it might be true, and there was no one else he could have asked save us. You know as well as I do that he'd never have gone to Iwerddon about something like this."  
  
"I know," Scotland says, smiling ruefully. "Not really one of my best plans, was it?"  
  
"I hate to break it to you, _Yr Alban_ , but, in retrospect, most of them were pretty shite." Wales sighs heavily. "So, now we do know, what are we going to do about it?"  
  
"I haven't got a fucking clue." Scotland hunkers down lower, and the Ford's axles squeal in protest. "Maybe… Maybe we don't have to do anything. He could be perfectly happy the way things are. Fucking hell, I'd gone without for over a century before the Great War, and after a while, I just got used to it and it didn't really bother me anymore. It is possible, you know."  
  
"Nevertheless," Wales says, striving to move past that revelation as quickly as possible so that Scotland doesn't feel compelled to elaborate; with one sentence, he probably now knows more details about his brother's sex life than he has in the couple of millennia or so preceding it. "At least you could decide yourself whether or not you wanted to… do that. You had the choice. Apparently, England never has.  
  
"And I know you saw the way he used to look at _Portiwgal_ , at India -" at America since the Second World War, Wales' brain supplies, but he's been trying to ignore that particular observation for the past fifty-odd years, so he doesn't give it the credence of voicing it – "otherwise you wouldn't have said what you did earlier. You can't tell me that you don't think he might have wanted something more if he'd thought he could have it."  
  
"So, let me get this straight, you're suggesting we just march back inside and tell him?" Scotland sounds completely unconvinced by the idea; like he considers it so outlandish that he can't quite believe that Wales even suggested it. "'We're sorry for maybe screwing up your entire life, England, but we couldn't have known you were that fucking gullible'?"   
  
"Well, perhaps something slightly more subtle," Wales says, imagining the explosive reaction they would no doubt face if they said that to England's face.

In fact, he can't imagine England's reaction to be anything other than catastrophic, no matter how carefully they chose their words. He has every right to it, and Wales and Scotland probably deserve every speck of ire that might be directed their way, but the other patrons of the pub definitely don't deserve to be caught in the blast radius of England's anger.

"We should probably wait, though, until he's sober and somewhere more private. It's just a matter of picking the right moment."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Circa 1050; Northumbria, England**  
  
Cymru was too far east – and his brother too far south – for comfort, and his stomach churned with nervous anticipation, the muscles in his thighs aching as they pulled taut in preparation for flight. He licked his lips, and glanced around uneasily, but everything was still and quiet; nothing moving save for a single hawk wheeling through the iron grey sky above, searching for prey amongst the scrubby grass and gorse bushes that dotted the otherwise barren hillside, and the gentle sway of the treetops in the forest far below.  
  
"What are we doing here?" he asked yet again, even though he did not really expect an answer.  
  
This time, however, Alba seemed to hear him. He stopped scanning the horizon and turned towards Cymru, a smile slowly spreading across his lips, chasing away the frown of concentration which had been pinching them closed.   
  
"We're hunting rabbits," he said. "Well, we're hunting _a_ rabbit."  
  
"A rabbit?" Cymru asked, confused. Alba did not have his bow with him, or any traps, and although he had often boasted he could catch rabbits with his bare hands, Cymru had yet to see him do so and remained unconvinced. "Why did we have to come here to do that? You've got plenty of –"  
  
"How are you so stupid?" Alba snapped, cuffing Cymru around the back of the head. Even though he'd become gangling in recent years, limbs growing slender as a sapling's branches as he too stretched upwards towards the sun, the flat of his hand still connected with enough force that it made Cymru's ears ring. "Sometimes I can't believe that the same blood runs through our veins. The runt, idiot. I'm talking about the runt."  
  
Cymru sniffed, and rubbed at the base of his skull where he was sure there was already a lump forming. Sometimes he wished that he could tell Alba to leave their littlest brother be; he knew that Alba worried about him although he would never admit to it, wanted to make sure he was safe, but more often than not their meetings would turn into arguments, and then fights, and although England could not best either of them physically, he nursed his grudges better than anyone else Cymru knew. He was patient and cunning about extracting his revenge, and Cymru did not relish the prospect of spending another month or so constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for him to settle the score.  
  
Alba, however, was likely to punish any refusal on Cymru's part to accompany him straight away, and would have no compunction about tanning his hide. Neither outcome was a good one, neither decision preferable, and, as ever, Cymru felt trapped, stretched tight and thin between his two brothers. Yet his head was already pounding fit to burst, and the reality of Alba's fists was much more immediate than England's still hypothetical vengeance, so he allowed himself to be dragged forward when Alba caught hold of his wrist and started off down the hill once more.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
**26th December, 2009; London, England**  
  
  
Scotland is a coward, a traitor, and worst of all, Wales thinks, a lucky bastard.  
  
He'd left almost an hour ago to answer the door to someone Wales can only presume was France and has yet to return, leaving Wales to bear the weight of England's beady-eyed, albeit increasingly unfocused, scrutiny alone and wish that he too had convenient excuse to absent himself from it entirely. Cloistering himself in the downstairs bathroom had been, by its very nature, only a short-term solution, and he's already slipped out into the garden to smoke enough times that his lungs feel like they've had a thorough going over with a cheese grater.  
  
His last-ditch attempt to escape by fleeing to his old bedroom and hiding there until such time as England was so drunk as to pass out – thus rendering him unable to glare at anybody suspiciously and make them feel nervous, even guiltier than usual, and just about ready to blurt out _everything_ they really shouldn't when they were anything less than completely calm and collected – had been foiled by Guernsey, who'd caught sight of him as he attempted to creep up the stairs unnoticed.  
  
"Are you okay?" she asks, squeezing his hand as she drags him reluctantly back into the living room. "You're looking a bit flushed."  
  
"Just overheating," Wales says, and it's not entirely a lie. As New Zealand's actually present to see, everyone's felt obliged to sport the jumpers he's knitted for them – this year, Wales' is a particularly sickly shade of pea green with a recurring leek motif (or possibly a recurring rocket motif; it's hard to tell) along the sleeves – instead of all bar Scotland relegating them to the depths of their wardrobe unworn. "Seland Newydd seems to be under the impression that Wales is rather nearer to the Arctic than it actually is. In fact, I should probably go and cha–"  
  
"No, you don't," Guernsey says, tightening her hold as he tries to pull away. "Honestly, Wales, anyone would think you don't want to spend time with your family."  
  
She sounds utterly sincere, despite having known them all for quite long enough to know that that isn't exactly beyond the realms of possibility even under the best of circumstances. When he looks askance at her, however, the corners of her mouth lift in a small smile, and her eyes spark with silent laughter. "It's Christmas," she says, pressing a light kiss to his cheek before letting him go. "Being forced to spend time with people you don't really want to is practically the point of it. Where's your festive spirit?"  
  
Wales shrugs helplessly, because between the surprise appearance of unsuitable boyfriends, arguments, brawls, and, most importantly, _fucking fae_ that turned up where they weren't supposed to, he's not sure that he's got any left. It makes Guernsey laugh, and kiss his other cheek, but she still abandons him, directly in England's line of sight, in favour of her sister's company.  
  
Or, it would be England's line of sight if his eyes weren't tightly screwed shut, Wales realises, which calms his racing heartbeat down to its normal rhythm almost as quickly as it had risen.  
  
England's face, too, is a deep, uniform red, although it can't be blamed on needlessly heavy knitwear as he's discarded his own jumper – off-white with a red cross that's slightly more Nordic than it is St George – and even rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows and undone the button at his collar. Wales suspects that his brother's blush is more likely due to the fact that America's pressed tightly against him, shoulder to knee, after shuffling even further along the narrow sofa they're sharing to allow Australia to join them on it. America appears completely oblivious to their close proximity, though, his attention completely focused on Australia and a lively discussion apparently concerning the feasibility of battling giant spiders using machine guns, judging solely by their exuberant hand gestures.  
  
Given the rapid rise and fall of England's chest, and the white-knuckled grip around the neck of his half-drunk bottle of beer, Wales estimates he's only minutes away from exploding. Said explosion will doubtless entail harshly-spat insults, clenched fists and the picked-over bones of ancient grievances rather than anything of an earthier nature, however.  Not that Wales wants to witness anything of that sort – nor, he's sure, does anyone else in the room – but it would perforce solve a lot of problems, and Scotland's been nudging England towards making that particular decision with increasing force for some time. Despite his best efforts, it doesn't seem to have made one iota of difference, but then England's always been stubborn and difficult wherever his brothers' wishes are concerned, and evidently this extends even towards the ones he's completely unaware of.  
  
England's eyes open a fraction, just enough to reflect a thin sliver of light and to take notice of Wales, it appears, as his lips twitch and then reshape themselves into what might be the first breath of Wales' name. Wales smiles weakly, then spins on his heel and hurries away before he can tell for sure.  
  
England doesn't call out after him.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
**Circa 1050; Northumbria, England**  
  
  
Alba was in high spirits now that they'd started walking again, and he shared tales of his people with Cymru, sang him songs and spun riddles. He even told him of a lass who had caught his eye; a lass whose voice was 'as clear as a bell' and who danced 'like thistledown floating on the breeze', her feet barely touching the ground.  
  
Cymru, who had just begun to reach an age where he could appreciate such qualities in lasses himself, asked eagerly, "And is she the prettiest lass you've ever seen?"  
  
Alba chuckled, swiping at a tall patch of foxgloves with the stick he was carrying. "Naw, the prettiest lass I've ever seen turned out to be a lad, but he's still –" He cut himself off with a scowl, and then spun the stick around in his hand to rap Cymru smartly over the top of the head with it.  
  
Cymru bit back the yelp of pain that was his natural reaction, knowing that he'd get hit again and harder if he loosed it. "What was that for?" he asked instead, when he could be sure that his brother wouldn't be able to hear the threat of tears seeping into his voice.  
  
"You need to learn to keep your nose out of other people's affairs," Alba said, gruffly. "And don't ask so many bloody questions."  
  


 

* * *

  
  
**26th December, 2009; London, England**  
  
  
"Scotland wants to talk to you."  
  
Wales startles, half-rising from the chintzy, overstuffed armchair – an interloper from the parlour, dragged out of semi-retirement for the duration of the holidays – which has been his refuge for the quarter-of-an-hour or so, hidden in the farthest corner of the living room from England, and concealed behind the swagged branches of the over-decorated, over-sized Christmas tree. He sinks down onto the seat again as his brain catches up with his ears and he recognises the voice, however, raising a cloud of dust from the antediluvian upholstery as he does so.  
  
"Why?" he asks, smiling up at his sister.  
  
"He wouldn't say," Ireland says, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back to rest her shoulders against the wall beside Wales. "And, for some reason, he can't come and tell you himself, either."  
  
A cold feeling of dread seeps down through Wales' body, making him shiver a little as it settles at his core. "Fucking hell," he says under his breath, voice trembling a little as his breath falters, but it's apparently still loud enough for Ireland to hear as her eyes grow keen, fixed avidly on Wales' face.  
  
"What's going on with you two?" she asks, her tone a mixture of exasperated and suspicious. "Scotland's behaving just as strangely, but he said he can't tell me why unless you're there as well."  
  
Wales closes his eyes as another shiver races across his skin; anxiety and relief twisting themselves together in a Gordian knot he has no hope of unravelling. If Scotland's willing to tell Ireland, then it's clear that he too realises that they have no choice now; no more chances to try and pick their moment, to procrastinate, delay, and hope against hope that providence steps in to lift the responsibility from them.    
  
"It's a long story," he says. "And Scotland's right; it probably needs the both of us to tell it."  
  


 

* * *

  
  
**Circa 1050; Northumbria, England**  
  
  
Cymru wasn't supposed to know about France.  
  
He wasn't supposed to know that Alba thought him pretty; that he liked him better than any lass he knew. He wasn't supposed to have noticed that Alba's boasts became more fanciful in the other nation's presence, that his voice deepened and his chest swelled, or that he blushed and stammered whenever he was gifted with a smile or kind word.  
  
Cymru had noticed, because he was neither unobservant nor stupid, and Alba surely knew that even though they never talked of it, yet he was still angry about his slip of the tongue all the same. Angry at himself for allowing it, and angry at Cymru for hearing it, seemingly, because he'd cursed soundly, hit Cymru again, and then stormed off ahead, no longer making any allowances for Cymru's much shorter legs.  
  
Cymru had tried to keep up at first, but he had to take two, or even three, strides to match one of his brother's, and he'd soon begun to tire, falling further and further behind. His legs were somehow burning hot and numb at the same time, and his ribcage felt as though it had shrunk, leaving his chest aching with every breath. When his foot tangled in an exposed tree root, it seemed easier to just let himself fall.  
  
He landed heavily and awkwardly, grazing his legs and the heels of his palms as they slammed down against the jagged pieces of rock and shards of wood that littered the rough path he and Alba were following. He cried out reflexively at the sharp sting of pain, and then cringed just as reflexively afterwards, expecting Alba to punish him for fussing about something so trifling as skinned knees.  
  
The expected smack did not come, and when Cymru struggled up into a sitting position from his face-down sprawl, he realised that that was because Alba was unlikely to have heard him. He was nowhere to be seen, swallowed up by the cool, dappled shadows of the forest.  
  
As Cymru stood up, determined to set out towards where he had seen his brother last in the hopes of catching up with him again, his ankle bent like a willow branch, and a white-hot bolt of pain seared up the back of his leg. His cry this time was more of a scream, and its violence shocked his fae into materialising around him, their narrow, pointed faces contorted in simulacrums of terror.  
  
They grabbed at his clothes and hair with their tiny hands, their translucent wings fluttering so quickly that they became nothing more than a blur, but try as they might, they were not strong enough to lift him.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
**26th December, 2009; London, England**  
  
  
Once the dining room door has been locked, and then double-checked by Scotland – "Wouldn't want England to come waltzing in at the wrong moment." – they settle themselves at the far end of the table and Ireland says, "Now Wales is here, do you want to tell us what the big secret is?"  
  
Scotland snorts. "Not really, no." He twirls the stem of his empty wineglass between his fingers. France had apparently brought England two very nice bottles of Bordeaux as a belated Christmas gift, but he and Scotland had polished them both off whilst Wales was stuck in the living room getting the evil eye from England. "But I suppose I'm going to have to."  
  
"I'm guessing this has something to do with England," Ireland prompts, when Scotland lapses into silence again, "judging by the vile mood he's been in all evening. Viler than usual, I mean. Australia said he was relatively fine this morning, so what happened?"  
  
France doesn't even try to hide the fact that he looks positively delighted at the prospect of perhaps finding out some fresh embarrassment he can hold over England's head, but Scotland, for once, shakes his head at him; a definite 'no'.  
  
"You can't breathe a word of this to, England, you ken," he says, "not until we've figured out how to deal with it delicately."  
  
"Deal with _what_?" Ireland asks, sounding exasperated. "Fucking hell, Scotland, just spit it out, will you?"  
  
After taking a deep, fortifying breath, Scotland does just that. "It was the unicorn. Then and now, it was the fucking unicorn."    
   
  


* * *

  
  
**Circa 1050; Northumbria** **, England**  
  
  
Cymru did not call out for his brother because this land was England's, and did not care for him as his own did. He and Alba were unwelcome visitors, and Cymru did not want to be discovered trespassing, not when he was alone and injured, unable to flee or fight back if he were caught.  
  
So he simply sat, silent and still, and prayed that Alba would notice him gone, and then upon that realisation, not decide that leaving Cymru to the mercies of the elements and wild animals was a valuable lesson in self-sufficiency as he had on so many other occasions in the past.  
  
Cymru did not know how long he waited, but his arse had started to go numb from the hard ground and the fae become agitated and querulous in their boredom before he caught sight of Alba amongst the trees once again.  
   
"What the hell are you doing?" Alba asked as he drew near. His expression was harsh and unforgiving, irritation writ plain in the bristling arc of his eyebrows and the tense line of his jaw. "Come on, I haven't got time for you to be messing around like this."  
  
He grabbed hold of Cymru's wrist and tried to drag him to his feet before Cymru had chance to protest, but paused, grip loosening, as a whimper escaped Cymru's lips when he tried to put weight on his injured leg.  
  
"Stop being such a…" Alba's breath whistled through his teeth after he caught sight of Cymru's swollen ankle, and his stern mien mellowed slightly. "What happened?"  
  
"I fell," Cymru said, wincing. The pain had dulled a little, but its reach had increased, spreading down to the tips of his toes and up to the small of his back.  
  
Alba shook his head, and muttered something that sounded very much like, " _Amadan_ ," under his breath. Cymru was convinced then that his brother would abandon him again, turn straight around to walk away, disgusted because Cymru was so clumsy and definitely wouldn't be able to keep up with him.  
  
Alba did turn his back on Cymru, but instead of walking away, he sunk down to one knee, and said, "Hurry up, then."  
  
"Hurry up?" Cymru repeated, confused. "Alba, what –"  
  
"I'll carry you," Alba snapped, scowling back at Cymru. "But it's just this once, you ken. I'm not about to make a habit of it."

  
   

* * *

  
  
**26th December, 2009; London, England**  
  
  
France's laughter dies when he realises that neither Ireland, Scotland nor Wales has joined with it.  
  
"So, something happened with a unicorn," he says, hesitantly, as though expecting to be interrupted at any moment and mocked for not treating the statement like the joke he clearly believes it to be.  
  
Scotland nods, seemingly willing to let France's scepticism pass without comment for once. Wales has long suspected that France regards their belief in the fae as an amusing but ultimately harmless eccentricity. By his own account, he'd even seen England's fae from time to time himself, but always rationalised it away as resulting from the effects of too much wine or hallucinations brought on by close proximity to England's food.  
  
"Usually, we never see any of England's fae," Scotland says, reaching for one of the bottles of wine, frowning when he discovers that it is indeed empty. He upends it over his glass, regardless, and shakes it until the last few drops left in the shallow trough around the punt dribble out. "They avoid us, and our fae avoid him. Safer that way, I guess. But, this morning, when we got back from playing football there was this unicorn, standing there bold as brass, in the front garden."  
  
"And that made Angleterre angry?"  
  
"Christ, no, he fucking loves that unicorn. All the more because he stole it from me, no doubt," Scotland says vehemently. It's still a sore point for him a millennium on, and Wales has had to bite his tongue on occasions to prevent himself from pointing out that Scotland's lucky it's still alive and hadn't been skewered then beheaded like Wales' poor dragon was. "The problem was that Mannin went straight up to it and started petting it like it was a sodding dog or something, when, as far as England's concerned, he shouldn't even have been able to see it at all."  
  
France still looks perplexed, clearly unable to imagine how anything Scotland had just said could possibly have impacted on England's mood in any way. Ireland's sharp intake of breath, however, suggests that she might just have figured at least part of it out.  
  
"And why would he think something like that?" she asks.  
  
Scotland sinks a little lower in his seat, obviously trying to avoid Ireland's eyes, and mumbles, "I may have told him some complete shite about how he should deal with the fae." His voice grows louder as he tries to defend himself with: "You remember what he was like, right, Ireland? He spent far too much time on his own with the fae. I knew it wasn't healthy, but I was only a kid and I couldn't think of any better way of dealing with it then."  
  
Ireland sighs unsteadily, and Wales can't tell if she's amused, doubtful or even angry. More than likely, it's a combination of all three. "And he's believed you all this time?"  
  
"Seems like a fucking miracle, right?" Scotland shrugs. "Bit more complicated than that, though."  
  
Ireland waves her hand, urging him to elaborate, but before he's able to, France says, "I'm not sure I follow." Though judging by how his expression has deepened from perplexity to utter confusion, the declaration is somewhat of an understatement.  
  
"Well," Scotland says, drawing the word out as though he's reluctant to finish it and have to continue. "You know how you've always said you couldn't understand why England keeps banging on about staying pure when the rest of us don't give a shit…"  
  
  


* * *

 

**Circa 1050; Northumbria, England**  
  
  
Cymru clung on tightly to his brother, arms locked about his neck and legs wrapped securely around his waist. He feared that it was a little too securely, and Alba might be finding it difficult to breathe, but, if he was, he made no complaint.  
  
"The fae've found where the runt's hiding," Alba said after a moment. He did sound slightly winded, but, then again, he hadn't slowed his pace at all in respect to the extra weight he was carrying. "It's not that far. We'll be there in no time."  
  
Cymru tried to reply, but pressed as tight as he was against Alba's back, he just got a mouthful of his brother's hair for his troubles. He settled for nodding instead, even though the knowledge they were drawing near made his skin shiver with nervous anticipation once again. The fae seemed troubled, as well, filling the air with piercing alarm calls whilst they swooped through the treetops. Alba seemed determined to ignore them, however, only acknowledging them for long enough to angrily shoo them away when they flew too close.  
  
Alba, Cymru privately believed, was far too stubborn for his own good most of the time.


End file.
